Live Fast, Die Young
by WinchesterPhantom
Summary: Before he hunted the woods for muggle-borns, before he fell into madness, Scabior was just a boy. And she was just a girl. Only problem was he was pure and she not so much. COMPLETED 29/01/11
1. Sweet Sixteen

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter - I know, really random but hey - such is life.

**Author's Note:** A little look at a teenager Scabior - the awkward sixteen year old - and how he progresses to the man we see in Deathly Hallows. A two-shot I'm thinking at the moment. Hasn't been beta'd and I really appreciate any thoughts anyone has on this.

_Italics_ are little conversations they have from when they are older or younger - out of time. Who says which line is up to you.

**Live Fast, Die Young**

_**Sweet Sixteen**_

_

* * *

_

What are you staring at?

_Nothing, darling._

_Yeah, right._

_

* * *

_

She came to the library every day. That wasn't why she was interesting though. She was a Ravenclaw after all and that is what Ravenclaws did according to the status quo. Just like how Hufflepuffs were meant to be sitting in circles, sharing their feelings; Gryffindors were meant to strutting around school liked they owned the place; and Slytherins were meant to be secretly learning the Dark Arts.

So that wasn't what made her interesting. No, it was her hair that made her interesting. He'd never paid attention to her in the past, never felt the need. She was just another girl in his year level, in a different house. When he was younger he didn't sit with girls in class so he never talked to her then, and now that he was older, a sixth year, he knew as a Slytherin he should not sit with her purely because she was muggle-born.

Which irritated him in a sense – because he should be free to choose who he wants to sit and talk with. But he understands it at the same time – he's a first generation pureblood and a Slytherin so he needs to play the part.

But he's got a bit of muggle-born in himself so why should it matter if he chats to an actual muggle-born?

But yes – her hair. That was why he was interested in it. He knew it used to be dark brown – at least he was fairly sure it was. He was certain though that there had not been blood red streaks in it last year. That was new.

She didn't seem the type.

But it made her look dangerous, gave her an edge – he wasn't sure. The blood red streaks certainly made her interesting – enough to catch his eye as he had seen her sit in Charms that first period of the new school year.

And at the end of each day, after learning her habits he went to the library and sat down. He didn't study, only pretended as he watched her out of the corner of his eye.

He never stayed long though as he did need to finish his homework.

_

* * *

_

You're pretty fly for a white guy.

_What?_

_Nothing_

* * *

She plays Quidditch.

And so does he – he was a Seeker when he was younger but he got a little too big and is now a Chaser. He doesn't mind though – Kennedy Williams is a far better seeker than he ever was, even better than Regulus Black. The kid is small and speedy even as a fifth year. He likes working better in a team which is what being a Chaser is all about rather than by himself.

Seekers are loners on the pitch, the Keeper is the guard, the Beaters are the enforcers, and the Chasers are the workers. It's that simple. It's the way it works. They all have their roles and he makes sure his team knows it. He won't have any screw-ups on his watch.

She isn't a captain – she's a Chaser herself. A team player. She flies well and sticks to formation and he can't help but smile slightly as she bashes against him to steal the Quaffle and he returns the favour all too willingly.

The wind whips at them as they race, and dive. She looks completely different on a broom, no longer hunched over books or reciting charms, she's got that edge to her, and boy is she fast. She has no regard for her safety as she pelts down the pitch.

He chases her, flying overhead, his heart racing. He gets an extra burst of speed, urging his broom on and drops down in front of her, body tensing for the impact which never happens because she swerves just as quickly though in the motion the Quaffle slips, starts to fall and he grabs it and leaves her behind, mad grin on his face.

He doesn't glance back at her but he knows she's chasing him, no doubt furious.

He likes it when girls get angry – it's hot.

And he always scores.

The Quaffle sails from his hands into the hoop and at that moment the siren sounds – Kennedy has caught the snitch, Slytherin has won.

He spins around on his broom and sees her only ten feet from him, glaring.

"Good game, love," he calls, smiling.

"That was dirty," she retorts, rolling her eyes before descending to the ground: a streak of blue and gold.

He likes her and he'll show her what 'dirty' really is sometime.

_

* * *

_

Wish I could run that fast.

_Why?_

_Because it would be awesome_

* * *

"What's the matter, Scabior?"

He glances over Warren Griffin as they sit by the fire in the Common Room. It is one of the privileges that come from being one of the upperclassmen – they get to sit by the roaring fire while the little kids sit in the cold. Not that it was too cold. Despite the common idea that the whole school wanted Slytherins dead, they was a heating charm cast on their common room and dorms so it wasn't completely freezing – still being by the fire did make all the difference.

But not today: the warm flicker of flames seemed to have no effect on him as he sat in two jumpers and thick socks, staring at the fire with dead eyes, a crumpled letter from home in his right hand. He had gotten the letter this morning, at breakfast. His parents are fighting again - worse than before it seems. He'd felt shit all day, unable to focus as his mind flickered to and from the letter. He didn't want to be here with his housemates, he didn't want to be in the open. He just wants to be alone for a bit – he could go to his dorm but even that didn't guarantee solitude.

"Nothing," he says, "Just thinking,"

Griffin didn't push the issue but continued to watch him for the rest of the night until he excused himself, walking to the dorm and sinking into his bed.

But not sleeping.

He left the dorm early that morning – at a quarter to six unable to lie down any longer. He wasn't exactly sure when he was allowed back in the corridors. He knew that at night he was allowed out until nine ... but what time was he allowed to leave again?

Then again at this point he really didn't care if he loses Slytherin some house points.

He leaves the dungeons and walks up into the Entrance Hall which is completely still – silent, dead. Every step he makes sounds so loud and he stops moving, staring at the heavy oak doors that lead to the grounds. Glancing around he wanders to them and they begin to creak open as he approaches. He throws a glance back but sees no on.

And then he is out on the grounds, in the cool air, walking on the dew and standing in the dark. He wanders over to the lake, sits down and watches the glass like surface, unsure of what to do with himself.

He could go up to the Owlery and write a letter home.

But he doesn't want to. There is no point. It won't change anything; it will be a waste of time. So he just sits and watches.

Until he hears the labour of heavy breathing, the crack of a twig and then he twists around, wand out, looking. The grounds are still empty, the sun only just starting to come up. And then he sees her, running – in what looks like short shorts and a sleeveless shirt.

He frowns.

She's running – why?

He staggers to his feet and begins to walk back to the castle. She's picking up speed and he's reminded of her racing on her broom except this is more ... well .. he isn't sure. She's free, feet skimming across the ground as she bounds. She stops outside the castle and leans against the wall, hands on her hips, eyes closed. Her hair is dishevelled; her body is sweaty – and bare.

Her eyes snap open and she jolts in shock. "What the -?"

"Why were you running?"

"Huh?"

She's confused. He's confused. He shouldn't be talking to her – and if he does he should be more ... _Scabior_.

"Nothing, love," he says with an easy smile, "You should take a shower,"

He leaves a parting wink that suggests a number of impure thoughts to her head, as her face grows even more flushed, and the moment he's back in the castle, he's back to being just as confused as before.

_

* * *

_

Keep doing that

_Doing what?_

_Bending over and picking up that book_

_Perv_

* * *

He's at the library again.

And so is she – or she will be soon, very soon.

The only difference is that this time he's there first. He's sitting in his usual seat, looking at his Potions essay with increasing frustration. He knows it's right – but he knows it's wrong. And he'll be damned if he'll get another 'P' in Potions especially not after he aced it in his OWLs. He lifts his quill, poises it over the paper but doesn't write.

Because at the moment he can hear her making her way into the library to her spot, lugging her heavy book bag.

He stays there, waiting for her to fall into his line of vision and sit at her desk. She does fall into his line of vision but only because she stands opposite him, dropping her bag on the table, pulling out the chair and sitting down, staring at him.

She has brown eyes.

"It would help if you had wet ink on that quill," she says.

He blinks, places it down, fighting the urge to quirk his lips. "Want to help me wet my quill?"

And then he cocks an eyebrow, smirking.

And she surprisingly smiles. "That was actually pretty funny,"

"I'm being serious,"

She leans forward and he can just see the swell of her breasts as her top button is undone and notices that they seem bigger than the girls in his house. He promptly turns his attention to her though as she speaks.

"You should get a better stalking spot,"

He wonders how long she's known about him watching her. He decides to play dumb.

"Stalking?" he says, "I don't understand,"

She rolls her eyes, and stares at his essay. "What's wrong with your potions essay?"

Everything. He used to be good at this subject but now it seemed everything he did blew up in his face – sometimes literally. He opens his mouth when he sees Warren Griffin enter, his housemate scanning the library no doubt for him. Shit. Scabior promptly shuts his mouth and sighs inwardly.

"What does it matter to you, mudblood?" he says.

She looks over at Griffin, a small smile on her lips, as if she has just used Leglimency.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asks, grabbing her bag and getting up. "We can go over your essay,"

He nods because it takes guts to go up and chat to a Slytherin when you're a muggle-born and that plus her red streaked hair and her running in the school grounds each morning adds to her appeal.

And because he knows she's getting Os in Potions.

_

* * *

_

Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an –

_Muggle tune?_

_You know it_

* * *

The castle is getting colder as the snow falls thickly in the grounds. They are both in the library again, this time in a more secluded spot so they can talk without any stares from their peers. Scabior feels somewhat wrong doing this – he's talking to a muggleborn after all, something completely against his House. She also feels this though for different reasons.

They don't talk a lot, mostly study. She helps him with his Potions and he helps her with Transfiguration. Every other subject is a competition for them except she doesn't do Defence and he doesn't do Herbology.

He's practicing the _Aguamenti_ charm using non-verbal magic, trying to shoot water into a glass he took from the Great Hall at lunch. She's reading a book for Care of Magical Creatures. After his twentieth attempt which only produces a dribble of water he puts down his wand and sighs.

She keeps reading. He watches.

"Stop."

He blinks. "Watching you?"

"Yeah,"

"You didn't mind it before, love,"

She glances up. "I actually did,"

"Is that why you came and talked to me?"

"Sort of ..." she says. Her gaze flicks to the snow falling outside. "What are you doing for the holidays?"

"Home," he grunts. He'd rather stay here though, that letter and the ones which had followed from home stuffed into the bottom of his trunk.

"I'm going to my Dad's,"

"Dad's?"

"My parents separated when I was little – Mum gets me in the summer and Dad gets me at Christmas," she says, eyes back onto her book, like it's no big deal.

"And you're okay with that?"

"I got used to it," she says that last bit carefully, eyes looking at him carefully. He stares back into them and fidgets slightly.

"I should go back to my Common Room," he says. He grabs his stuff and stands up.

"Merry Christmas, Scabior," she says.

"Yeah, Merry Christmas,"

_

* * *

_

Ever feel like you can't talk to anyone?

_It's called being a teenager_

* * *

"Scabior!"

Her voice rings in the library. He jumps slightly and sees her, poking her head out of _their_ spot, her red streaks just as prominent as ever. He looks over to where Griffin has wandered off, doesn't see him, guesses he can see what she wants and Griffin will be none the wiser to him talking to her. He quickly heads over to her.

"Don't yell my name out," he says in a low voice, leaning against a book case.

"Still ashamed to be seen with a mudblood?" she says, rolling her eyes. "What happened to '_I don't really see the problem – we're all magic'_?"

He glares at her. "You have no idea what –" he changes mid-sentence because he is not going to bring it up. He hisses, "Just go study, mudblood," and turns to leave.

"And let you fail Potions?"

He spins on his heel. "I'm not failing Potions –"

"Because of me," she says.

Why does she have to be so hard headed? Why isn't she in Gryffindor with this kind of attitude? He sighs and takes a seat opposite her, all the while glancing around to make sure no one is watching them.

"Things aren't the same anymore," he says, unsure of how to say it. How to talk about it. He's only talked to it to Yaxley, who he barely knows, and even then he gets the feeling Yaxley doesn't really care but is only there to convince him what his Dad did was wrong – sinfully wrong – and that his Mum did a noble thing.

"Why?"

He narrows his eyes, his heart hardening. "Because me mummy killed me daddy because 'e became a blood-traitor – get it? She sliced –"

"Scabior –"

"You wanted to know didn't you?"

"I told you in my letter –" he instantly regrets sending her that first letter the moment he got home, " – which you never replied to – but anyway that if you wanted to talk about it, I know where you're going through –"

"Oh so now your mum killed your dad?"

"No, but ..." she says, "Listen – when you want to talk I'll be here – okay?"

"Yeah, whatever,"

_

* * *

_

Stop, please – you can't!

_Now why would I stop? Just started, didn't I?_

* * *

It takes him a week to return to the library and when he was at the threshold he stands there for about a minute weighing up his options, considering the situation from all angles. He finds more pros than cons and steps into the library, walking briskly over to their spot where she is waiting.

She doesn't look up when he sits down and he watches her for a bit. She's the same as she was before Christmas, exactly the same. He's not, he's changed, he's grown, he's ... something. He wishes he could turn back the clock.

Maybe Yaxley could get him a Time Turner ...

"I wondered when you'd turn up,"

_So did I_, he thinks.

"I'm only 'ere because of Potions, okay?" he says though.

"Thought so," she says. She rummages in her bag for a bit and pulls out a brightly wrapped present. She hands to him.

"What's this?"

"Your Christmas present," she rolls her eyes.

"Why?"

"Because I saw it – when I was getting a presents for my cousins – and thought of you,"

He takes it and carefully unwraps it. Out spills a red monster teddy bear like toy. It's soft, with wide eyes and orange button nose.

"I don't get it,"

She giggles. "Okay so basically there is this television show called _Sesame Street_ – Muggle thing – and they are all puppets who teach kids how to spell things, right?"

He nods, still staring at the little red monster.

"And that guy –" she gestures to the toy, "is called Elmo (1) – like you,"

"They named a furry red monster after me?"

"Well not exactly after you but..."

He doesn't know if he should laugh or cry.

_

* * *

_

Running is –

_Painful, don't say otherwise, love_

* * *

She's invited him to go running with him. It takes him three mornings before he actually gets up and heads down to the grounds. She's dressed head to toe in proper running gear – Muggle clothing – and he ... well he's got some old tie-up boots and a baggy t-shirt.

She, as always, rolls her eyes at him and starts to run. He's soon puffing heavily, realising that this is a very different form of exercise to Quidditch. He's working harder than he's ever had to before as his feet thump beside her graceful leaps.

They run – or rather jog in her case – to the Quidditch Pitch, do a lap and then head back to the castle.

"So why aren't we going to the lake?" he asks once he's finally got his breath back and is sitting on the stone's steps.

"At the rate we were going it will take too long," she says, now stretching. She glances up at him, "You should really stretch – you'll feel it tomorrow if you don't,"

"Why do you run?"

"My dad used to be an Olympic runner,"

"Olympics?"

"You are such a wizard," and her trademark eyes go a rolling.

_

* * *

_

If you were a Quaffle and I was a Chaser during a Quidditch match, I'd score with you.

_Who said that to you? That is no way to pick –_

_Like yours are any better?_

* * *

She's lying in the hospital wing, covered in mud and with a large bruise on her head. It's turning purple, getting larger by the second. She's just laying there, eyes flickering open and shut. Her housemates have just left and he waits until they are out of sight before sneaking in.

He can imagine the hexes that would come his way if they, the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team, saw the Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team going to talk to one of their Chasers. As he walks in he spots her and feels a twinge of guilt. It was one of his Beaters who had hit that Bludger which had promptly knocked her off her broom. Another part of him says it was all in the name of the game and it had to be done to win – which they, Slytherin, did – a good start to his first year as Captain, winning the House Quidditch Cup and all.

"'ello," he coos, walking over to her bed.

She tilts her head slightly, grimaces from the pain. "Hello,"

"How is your 'ead?"

"Bludgers hurt,"

"I never realised," he deadpans.

"They really hurt,"

"I think you'll live,"

"But it really hurts,"

He gives her a quick peck on her forehead remembering some inane comment about kissing something to make it better.

"That was almost sweet if not for the fact the pressure of that is now making my head hurt like a –"

"MISTER SCABIOR –" booms the voice of Madam Pomfrey.

"Ahh shit,"

"You snuck in didn't you?"

He can only nod as the Hogwarts matron pulls him out by his ear.

_

* * *

_

_I need a little more_

* * *

"But I'm really worried about question –"

He briefly considers casting _Silencio_ on her. She hasn't stopped talking since they left the exam room, going on and on and on about it. He's thankful to the Sorting Hart for not placing him in Ravenclaw because if the rest of them are like this he might have poisoned himself long ago.

"- but I suppose it's out of our –"

He stops, dead in his tracks. His hand snakes forward and he grabs her hand, pulling her towards him. His lips meet hers, her body briefly losing the ability to stay up right but he holds her, pressing a bit harder against her lips before pulling back.

Her eyes are wide.

"What just –"

To prevent another verbal ramble he kisses her again, silencing her as his lips move against her, holding her firmly against him.

She pulls back, breathing heavy. "Scabior?"

"I needed you to shut up," is what he says but he thinks: _I've waited all year just to do that, Madness._

And he's glad he did do just that.

He winks at her, sees Griffin on the other side of the courtyard and his stomach drops for a second but then Griffin gives him the thumbs up. He frowns at his dorm mate and looks back at her. "Later," and he leaves her standing in silence and wanders over to Warren.

"About time," says Warren, clapping him on the back.

"But she's a mudblood–"

"She's cute – and now you've guaranteed a pass in Potions next year,"

He needs to get better at hiding things.

* * *

**To be continued.**

**

* * *

Thoughts are very much appreciated :) Thanks for reading regardless though.**

BTW **_(1)_** Elmo (from _Sesame Street_) was only called Red Monster when this story is set ... so creative licence is used. In fact in regards to what world this fits in - I like book canon best except for when it comes to the Snatchers ... so ... yeah. And yeah, Scabior is properly known as Elmo Scabior - I thought long and hard about this ... went on numerous baby name sites as well.


	2. Crossroads

**Author's Note:** The next section before the descent. Thanks to all those who have read, fave'd, alerted and reviewed. This starts from when he is 23 and goes until he is nearing his 28th birthday.

Hope you enjoy - hasn't been beta'd and I have realised I awkwardly kinda changed tenses from the first chapter and will have to remedy the first chapter. Awks.

But anyway - ENJOY!

**Live Fast, Die Young**

**Crossroads**

_

* * *

_

Will we grow old together?

_No idea, Gorgeous, no idea_

* * *

He's just bought his own place. A tiny one room flat in Knockturn Alley (Diagon Alley is out of his price range). The kitchen joins onto the living room and bedroom, an old sheet the only thing separating his bed from the rest of the house, with the bathroom separate. It is tiny, small, cramped but it had been cheap and it serves his current purposes.

He hopes.

Still a new coat of paint, old furniture from home which he had inherited when his mother passed away in Azkaban that hadn't been sold or put into storage, and the place cleaned up well. He had thought of selling his old home but at Yaxley's advice he'd kept it on the market, leasing it to his old mate, Griffin, who had just tied the knot.

He feels pretty good about the whole deal even if it isn't in Diagon Alley as he had hoped. He's twenty-three, has a steady job, has moved out of home, stopped leeching off Yaxley and is not that bad looking if he says so himself.

Life was good.

He leaves his brand-new apartment and heads out, heading through the dingy alley and into the sunlight that is Diagon Alley, sidestepping people as he walks to the Leaky Cauldron, intent on getting a firewhiskey with Yaxley.

Yaxley has become like family to him – if he could call the former Death Eater that. When his mother passed right before his final NEWT exams, Yaxley stepped in, made him focus on his studies; later Yaxley took him from the Scabior Family home and into his own home. He became Scabior's closest thing to a big brother – or a father in some cases. He also taught Scabior things. Things he had never learnt at Hogwarts.

A part of him liked it, knowing that if he ever got on the receiving end of a duel he'd have some tricks up his sleeve. Another part told him that he shouldn't be learning these things.

"Scabior!"

He froze, his eyes widening. He heard hurried steps coming towards him, could feel the hand creeping forward but he turned around before her hand could brush against him.

She had changed. Gone the blood red streaks and replaced with blood red hair, which was short, spiked. Her skin was browner from the sun, her teeth shiny white and her body – well she had certainly matured from the seventeen year old girl he had farewelled six and a half years ago as they left Hogwarts on the row boats to symbolise the end of their magical education.

"Well, well – long time no see," he says, unable to keep the grin off his face.

"We should catch up,"

His eyes do another quick one over to make sure it's her.

"Defiantly, gorgeous,"

"You've gotten worse with age," she quips, "Tomorrow at the Cauldron? One?"

"Sure thing,"

_

* * *

_

Are you listening?

_To be honest I tuned out five minutes ago_

* * *

The Leaky Cauldron was not the classiest places to go for a date. It was shabby, had billows of smoke, was lit with poor firelight and yet every wizard in Britain regardless of status used it at some point. Even creatures like hags ventured into it and met no real opposition. It was the gateway between Magical London and Muggle London, the heart in a way.

This was where Scabior was, sitting in a table in the back, facing all the entrances. He was drinking gillywater while she had opted for Butterbeer. They were waiting for their stew to come while they talked about the past, the present and the future.

"Invisibility Task Force?"

"Yeah," he said, "Its proven a good choice – learning plenty of new magic, combines a bit of Charms and Defence though not enough Transfiguration unfortunately,"

"I can't say I picked you cleaning up after idiots who exposed our world,"

He shrugged. "It's more than that – its about completely separating the two so we don't have to deal with or think about Muggles and we can live a pure magical lifestyle without disruption – we're working on new wards that not only shield a Muggle from a place but also plant a belief they have to be somewhere else,"

She frowned slightly. "Planting ideas in people's head? Like false memories? That doesn't seem very –"

"Causes no more harm than obliviate,"

He glanced up to thank Tom as their meals were placed on their table and the old landlord left without a second glance.

She took a sip of butterbeer. "I do wonder though – all this separation ... I mean I understand the whole we shouldn't let norm – Muggles – know because they would ..."

"Start more burnings?"

"Well, no," she said, "But on our end we should learn to adapt and move about in the normal world, you know? I mean there are so many ways that they are more advanced than wiz –"

"They're _Muggles_," he snapped, his gut clenching. He wanted to say more but felt it best not to. She opened her mouth to continue but he quickly said. "So travelling – what did you do exactly?"

"Studied Herbology and Potions around the world – I want to become a certified brewer for St Mungos ... I would aim for Mastery but it's hard to find someone when you're muggle – well being a brewer will work up some references at least," she said with a shrug. "I also took a basic two year course in _Muggle_ Chemistry," she added.

The glint in her eye dared him to comment on that. He wisely didn't.

_What did you get?_

They ran everyday once more.

Today she wasn't even bothering to wait for him, taking long strides, her face set. Her eyes had been cold when he had arrived at her flat in Muggle London and she had strolled in front of him, only saying a few words. He had hated it when she was like this at Hogwarts and hated it still now.

He had asked her and of course she had just picked up the pace. Now he was chasing her, determined to catch her. Like old times. His legs were longer, and he hadn't stopped running after school so he was always one metre behind her.

She got quicker, realising that he was at her toes and he returned the favour. They ran, and ran, and ran. He wasn't going to give up, he was going to find out and get her out of her mood. His chest was heaving, face red, sweat was dripping off his body, and he had never had to run this fast over such a distance but he stuck at it.

They hit Hyde Park, racing over green grass.

That's when he made his move. He darted forward, lunged, finger tips catching her shirt and pulling her back. She crashed back into him, knocking them both down, and he took the chance to roll on top of her, pressing his muscle against her.

"What the fuck?" she breathed, squirming.

"What's wrong?"

"This is how you ask!"

"This is how I get an answer," he said calmly, grabbing her wrists so she couldn't punch him.

"Let me up,"

"No,"

"I'll scream,"

He almost let her.

But instead he got up and they sat there in the sunrise, talking.

_

* * *

_

My hand is –

_Don't complain – I had to write five pages for Defence on top of all that._

* * *

They write letters, constantly. The moment one arrives, no matter where he is, Scabior has started to mentally jot down what he can write in them. He writes mostly about the gossip at work, about Griffin and his secret skyclad escapades (she strongly disapproves of this but likes the updates), and occasionally about himself. He never writes about what Yaxley is teaching him or how he is bored to death at work or his own not-secret-unless-its-her skyclad escapades.

He doesn't tell her about nearly cursing a Muggle boy after he got called in to clean up a twelve year old muggleborn's accidental magic when the Muggle attacked her for being a 'freak'. About having to freeze his boy and just _obliviate_ the boy and telling the girl to stay inside for the rest of the summer because that boy doesn't remember and might attack again.

Her letters amuse him – they are so unstructured compared to all her essays and the way she studied at school. There is no logical thought progression, just a stream of conscious as she tells him about living at her Potions Master's house in Melbourne, Australia. She tells him about how the Australian wizard culture lives along side and with the Muggle world – hidden still but not as separate as the rest of the world, about how the trains never run on time, about how the weather is all backwards. She writes about how much she misses her family and her friends – but never him.

She went to Australia because it was only there that she could apprentice. Slughorn wouldn't take her on despite having just granted Severus Snape his own even though when she left school Slughorn had told her he wasn't taking anyone at all, that the war had tired him out. And yet he had taken on Snape. No one in Europe or Africa would take her either.

She had left three years ago.

He never writes in his letters that he missed her. Because deep down he knows even if she was still here they probably wouldn't see each other as they move in different circles and they no longer have the common bond of studying. And yet another part says he would still see her every morning for their runs – that the running and chasing would never stop.

And yet when he stared out onto Knockturn Alley at Christmas before going to the Yaxleys, knowing that she would be experiencing the sunshine while he was in the cold, he wished that she was here.

It only took him until New Year's to write her a short letter:

_I miss you._

_Happy New Year's_

_E. Scabior_

He didn't even write 'Gorgeous' this time because he had a feeling she might not take him seriously if he did even though she was that.

_

* * *

_

School is boring

_Why?_

_The same thing happens every day_

* * *

She didn't last long.

Or rather he hadn't. He wasn't really sure at this point who had first kissed who. What he did know they'd only be out for an hour, drinking and eating a lamb roast, talking about whether or not she had gotten a job yet – which she had of course. Her references made everyone else's look like crap as combined with her Mastery, her previous travels had St Mungo's practically at her beck and call.

She had returned seven months after his letter, making a mad rush to finish her Mastery. She had only sent one letter back in that time:

_I miss you too_

And after that they didn't need to write anymore.

They had talked, or rather he had listened, making quips here and there and eventually they had left the stuffy pub, walking to his flat and ending up in his sheets: twisting, moaning, thrusting.

Once again he thought to himself: _I waited seven years to do this – I should've just taken her to the Restricted Section all those years ago_.

It wasn't mind-blowing. But it was nice: soft kisses here and there; naughty: him teasing her with the flick of his tongue, sneaking up and bending her over when decided to get some water from the kitchen. It was good, wasn't just in his bed – though they ended back there in the end.

They lay beside each other, not curled up together but side by side, staring at the ceiling. She begun to sit up and he followed her, noting how the streetlight outside his window made her body glow. She looked over at him, leaning back against the headboard.

He watched her, a smile on his face.

"We should do this again sometime," he said.

"By 'this' do you mean dinner or sex or both?"

He considered it for a second. "Just dinner – you'd be desert of course,"

She blushed slightly and looked around the room. "Charmer, you are,"

He grinned.

"Holy shit – you still ..." her voice fell into silence as she left the bed and wandered over to his bookcase.

"What?"

She reached for something and spun around, holding a little red monster in her hands.

"This is cute," she said, "You kept him,"

"Well I couldn't throw out Elmo Jnr could I?"

"Under that bad boy exterior you are just one big –"

"Big? Why thank you, sweetheart"

She rolled her eyes.

_

* * *

_

Would you rather have sex with a Boggart or live with a Minotaur your whole life?

_Neither_

_That's not a proper answer_

* * *

Surprisingly enough they didn't become boyfriend and girlfriend, or become awkward around each other. When they passed each other in Diagon Alley, she shopping for ingredients and he had been buying new robes, they flashed one another a smile, organised to meet for lunch and went on their way. They still went on runs though now in the woods and fields, away from Muggles.

It was like they were back at Hogwarts – no matter what they revealed or did they always returned to that state of just being friends. They could talk to each other about anything but when it came to what they were they never talked about it. They just accepted that whatever they had they had. End of story, no discussion.

Except now they had the added sex on the side which was just sex: pure and simple.

This went on for a year and he didn't get it.

When he had been with girls in the past they had always talked about it: _am I your girlfriend? Do you love me? Are you this? Are you that? _– he found it annoying. Yes, he was their boyfriend. No, most times he didn't love them. He liked them yes, lusted after them but deep down he didn't love them.

She never said these things.

It seemed in some way they both understood that words, declarations of those kinds were kind of useless – both their parents proved it.

What mattered really was how they felt.

And he wasn't sure how he felt about her – he liked her very much but he wasn't sure if he liked her enough to keep her in his life or liked her enough to risk losing her.

**_

* * *

_**

_**To be continued.**_

**

* * *

Thoughts are very much appreciated :) Thanks for reading regardless though.**


	3. Bittersweet

**Author's Note:** This has slowly gotten longer and longer. I only meant this to be a two-shot ... but anyway I hope you enjoy this and have a Merry Christmas & Happy New Year as I won't update until after then.

Hasn't been beta'd. Feedback is gold.

Thanks for reading!

**Live Fast, Die Young**

**

* * *

**

**Bittersweet**

* * *

_Friends do things together, hang out, don't ditch each other_

_She sat away from you for one lunch …_

_No, it was two_

* * *

She strolled into his office like she owned the place. To anyone who didn't know her, she looked like just any regular witch. Her dark brown hair, streaked with her classic unnatural red was tied back, her dark almost black robes were clean and neat, a small logo on her right breast showing that she was a Brewer for St Mungo's made her look respectable, and the way she just glided in with such grace added to the effect.

She didn't look awkward even though she wasn't exactly sure where she was meant to be going. He figured that was one of the reasons he liked her so much.

As she walked in he glanced up. Scabior had been looking at Breaches Reports, a boring and repetitive task despite their nature. He wasn't sure how they made the incidents his Department boring but somehow the reports did that – _magic_, he thought to himself dryly.

He placed down his quill and frowned, glancing around his cubicle as if he expected someone to be listening in.

"Wot are you doin' 'ere?"

"I don't get a hello?" she said with a smile, leaving the doorway and sitting on his desk.

"'ello, Gorgeous," he said with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes. "Hey, Handsome,"

He rose, standing to his full height and looked at her carefully, taking her in: her face was clear but her eyes were slightly red. As he continued to scan her face he noticed a slight lack of colour: she was paler. His eyes slipped down to her hands: clasped together, tightly.

Like before her NEWT exams, like when she failed her Apparation test the time – a stream of moments in time flirted with his conscious, eyes narrowing as he took in her hands, clasped tightly, and the fingernails … bitten and torn.

"Wot 'appened?"

He looked back up at her eyes, saw the flicker of emotion.

"I saw Death,"

He frowned.

"My Dad," she said with a shrug. Her eyes wouldn't leave his: he saw her break. Like he had, all those years ago.

"Tell me,"

It wasn't a question, it was an order.

"Cancer,"

She spoke slowly, carefully so that her feelings: the mad rush of sadness and anger didn't spiral out. "Fucking cancer – I looked and looked – but you know what … even magic can't cure that! We can make teacups tap dance but can't fucking save lives –"

"It isn't your fault,"

"I know –"

"Yet _you_ blame yourself," he pointed out in a cool voice.

She glared. "You're a bastard,"

"For speaking 'onestly?"

Her eyes left his, her body shuddering. She took a few deep breathes, trying to regain composure. He glanced at the clock and wondered how quickly he could get her back home so she could just let go. Being here was taxing her mentally, she couldn't keep it up. He knew it, he knew her.

He walked around his desk to her, placing a hand on hers. "C'mon, let's get ya home –"

She shook her head. "Let's go away – for a few days," she drew another breath, looking at him in the eyes again, "Get away from this – we'll go camping. We've never been camping. All friends go camping, it's just the normal thing to do –"

This time he didn't kiss her to silence her, as her eyes began to water, as her words were muffled with her shaky breathes. This time he just wrapped his hands around hers, stood close and let her lean on him. He let her words, pointless words just flow.

Like she had done one afternoon with him, in the library, a week after his mother passed in Azkaban, and he finally couldn't take it anymore.

_

* * *

_

Who even does Astronomy anymore?

_Sykes does_

_Yeah but he's an insomniac so it doesn't count._

* * *

He had taken a fortnight off work.

And now instead of being home after a long day at work, he was in a forest, sitting by a tent, wrapped in many layers as the cold froze him, watching her as she tended to a fire. She insisted on a fire, said it was the normal thing, refused to use the mini kitchen that they had in their tent. She hadn't used magic since they got here.

He hadn't either.

The trees around them were tall, looming over them. And yet through the tall branches he could see the stars, twinkling away. Far away and out of reach, the heavens were above them, just out of reach.

_

* * *

_

Just cook!

_And that will help?_

_Well, yeah. You'll get better at cutting your ingredients. It's an alternative form of studying_

_Cooking … feck_

* * *

"This is amazing,"

They were sitting on a grassy knoll, eating wraps full of salami, salsa, cheese, and various vegetables. The sun was above them, providing a small amount of warmth as she taught him how to make the tortilla wrap hold everything together, laughing as small bits dropped on the ground.

"It isn't that amazing," she dismissed, "It's basic camp food – wait until we have a bucket lunch … now that is amazing,"

"I'll talk your word for it," he said, mid chew.

"I actually have this theory that no matter what you cook, as long as you are camping it'll taste awesome," she said, "Not that we cooked this meal per say but still,"

"I dunno," said Scabior, "That cous cous yesterday was –"

"But you cooked that," she pointed out, a superior I'm-so-much-better-than-you smirk appearing.

"Still disapproves your theory, 'nuff said,"

"You're the exception to the rule,"

"Sure, Gorgeous," he said with a wink, "Sure, sure,"

She stuck her tongue out.

_

* * *

_

How long d'ya reckon it'll last?

_Three weeks_

_I reckon a month_

_Five Galleons then?_

* * *

"What are you reading?"

"Trashy romance novel," she said, calmly as she leant against the tree. She flicked another page, her eyes never leaving it as she devoured word after word. He was sitting at the tent opening, watching her patiently, wondering what was making her blush.

"Trashy romance novel?"

She looked up, rolling her eyes. "Bodice ripper – the whole dark, mysterious, bad boy who secrectly has a heart of gold trying to seduce the sweet, innocent, naïve, but tough-as-nails heroine who is the only one who can tame his wild heart,"

"Seriously?"

"This one involves a Goblin King,"

"Who would wanna date a goblin? And since when do they have a 'King'?"

She sighed. "He's their king – not one himself – and besides these goblins are completely different – its fiction,"

A _lumos_ spell went off in his head. "Muggle book?"

"Yes,"

"And you say they aren't…"

"Oh shut up,"

He grinned. "So if I pushed you against that tree –"

She put down her book and looked him straight in the eye. "Scabior, the fact your name is Elmo and you have a stuffed toy at home that you kept immediately eliminates you from the role of the whole dark, mysterious, bad boy,"

"I don't believe it," he said confidently.

She smirked. "The fact you also talk about your feelings also discounts you,"

"Maybe that's just because you've tamed me?" he said, getting up, sauntering over to her. He cocked his eyebrow, smiled like a saint, the devil in his soul and once he reached her, they started to kiss: hard and in a feverish rush.

"Okay, I lied," she whispered against his neck. "The bad boy thing is you,"

"Thought so, Love"

_

* * *

_

You feel oddly satisfied after it – your heart is thumping, you're dripping sweet

_You can barely walk – don't cha forget that_

_That and you wanna puke but it's the still the greatest feeling ever_

* * *

They had hiked through the lonely woods that day, the river running beside them as their steps crunched on near frozen ground and broken twigs. They had walked without purpose, not caring where they went, just talking about the shapes the clouds formed, about the birds that flew above, about the chill that consumed their bones.

They talked about old Quidditch matches, above old pranks in an age old castle, about being dared to enter the Forbidden Forest but never actually going that far in, and about the biasness of their teachers.

Their conversation was nonstop, a seemingly never-ending collection of half-remembered moments and fabrications. They glorified their days back at Hogwarts, they wondered why they couldn't back as life had been so much simpler back then even though it really hadn't.

They talked breathless as they took a dip in an icy stream, goosebumps covering her naked body as she pulled him under, his voice leaving him for but a second before he yelled into the forest air. She laughed, he dove after her, pulling her against him.

They got up quickly, pulling on clothes, setting up their tent and heading inside. They ate stale biscuits for dinner and their voices kept rambling until she fell asleep against him.

She awoke the next morning, against him, in his bed, a smile on her face.

_

* * *

_

They say that there are –

_You do know werewolves are just like us? Besides the whole turn into a bloodthirsty wolf thing – so as it isn't full moon, the Forest should be fine. Trust me._

* * *

"Where are _you_ going?"

He asked this in a half slumber. They were lying against each other on his bed, wrapped in several blankets as white snow fell outside. She was sitting up, eyes wide, a rainbow coloured knitted beanie with ear flaps on her head. She glanced around the tent, and stared at the opening.

"I heard –"

There was a crunch of snow outside, the wind whistled in the trees, creaking all around them and Scabior sat up instantly. He reached for his wand, and got up. His ears strained to catch a whisper of whatever was coming towards him. He walked to the flap of the opening, looked back at her: still sitting in their mess of blankets, eyes wide.

"Stay there," he mouthed, before venturing out.

The air cut into him instantly and he regretted not putting on a cloak instantly. He glanced around, not daring to utter 'Lumos' as that would give him away – though he was sure their presence was already given away no doubt. He could feel eyes on him: he knew he was being watched. They were being watched.

But where from? He couldn't tell.

His gut twisted, dread filling him. Every sense, every instinct told him to run. They needed to get out. Pack up and Apparate away somewhere – they were near-ish to Hogsmeade … not too far. They could get there and wait out the rest of the night in the safety of the magical town.

He turned and poked his head back in to tell her.

The ground crunched, as a rush of fluid movement grabbed him, pulling him backwards, his wand dropping. He hit the forest floor, gripping on the ground, yelling as he was pulled by his left foot. He twisted around, tried to aim his right foot at the figure but was kicked by another. Hard. In the side.

"Fuck!"

Rough hands pulled him into a kneeling position, grasping his long hair and pulling it back, forcing his face upwards, a knee in his back, applying pressure by the second. He glanced at the tent, his body freezing solid as her voice ripped through the night and was pulled out.

"Get the _FUCK_ OFF –" he roared.

He grunted, the knee ramming into him.

"Now, now – what do we have here?"

That voice.

A figure stepped into the clearing, moonlight showing a face with matted hair covering, and a feral grin as its eyes gleamed. He knew that face, had seen it all over Diagon Alley back in the War, could still see it on the Most Wanted posters: dog, werewolf, monster – hardly human anymore.

They had been captured by werewolves – he knew they shouldn't have just wandered without a plan.

"Aren't you pretty," said Fenrir Greyback as he walked towards her, smile on his face.

_Not her._

"Fuck off, Greyback," he snarled. "She's _mine_,"

The knee in his back left for a second but Greyback raised his hand and the knee was placed back gently. He glared, wishing he knew non-verbal, wandless magic well enough to_ Avada_ the bastard, as the werewolf stalked towards him.

"Yours, Wizard?" he asked, "Yours?"

"Mine," said Scabior, trying to inject a degree of menace into his voice, "If you lay a single fucking finger on her I will curse you,"

"Without your wand, Wizard?"

_Fuck. Still bluffing sometimes work – show no fear._

Scabior smirked. "You think I need a wand?"

"I think you're full of shit,"

_Fuck. Well, he's got me._

The werewolf smiled. "You should watch where you camp next time." He turned back to her and threw a glance back at him. "Think she likes it _rough_?"

Blood pounded in his ears.

"I doubt you could even get it up,"

The air around them stilled instantly as she called that over to Greyback. Scabior's stomach dropped, his eyes widening. What the fuck had she said? Why was she – his heart skipped a beat as he stared at her. What had possessed her to say that? Sure him playing the dominance card was a risk but outright …

"Says a lot about a man if he has to resort to rape to get some,"

His heart jolted. Why had she just said that? Why? Her eyes were fierce, determined, unafraid. She was fearless. And fucking stupid, so stupid. She was a freaking Eagle though he supposed the famous Ravenclaw intelligence didn't extend to street smarts – like not directly antagonising your potential rapist.

What was she playing at?

"How about I show you?" said Greyback, walking towards her. His grin was feral – wide. Her defiance no doubt turning the werewolf on. "Maybe I'll even keep you, pet. Like that?"

"Sorry, I don't fuck bitches – is it true you were You Know Who's lap dog?" he cringed inside as she said that and went on to say, "That you'd roll over and jump when he asked? Didn't realise that you were such a pus –"

Greyback backhanded her, a large smack filling the air. She was down on the ground, a cry escaping from her lips. Crumpled in a heap. She looked tiny there, in the night, surrounded by werewolves. If only he had his wand, he could curse them, get her – save her.

He felt sick, so sick as Greyback bent over her, running his hand along her body, slowly, it lingering in her hair, on her hips. Scabior's eyes scanned the area around them: there were five werewolves – the guy holding him, the guy holding her – or had been, Greyback, and two others. How could they get out of this? There had to be something … a small hope. But his wand lay in the tent opening, and she lay on the ground and he wasn't that strong.

Greyback stood up and turned to him, eyes alight. "She'll be fun,"

"You'll be _dead_," he snarled.

"I'll even let you watch," said the werewolf, as if he hadn't heard Scabior. "Think a collar will look pretty on –"

_"STUPEFY!"_

Red light erupted into the air, and the werewolf holding Scabior, let go as he ducked down. Scabior scrambled forward, racing towards her. She was on the ground, firing off spell after spell, in a series of fluid movement, barely hitting her targets but causing enough confusion they couldn't stop her.

He kept low, angling around Greyback to get to her. She had her wand, she could Apparate – he needed her or at least to get his own wand. Then it was all over, would be all –

_"FECK!"_

Greyback grabbed him, ripping into him. The air left him, body convulsing as the werewolf tore his clothes, his flesh, its face red from him. His blood. He pushed against the werewolf, tears rushing as Greyback bit him. The werewolf was too strong. Every kick, every push was useless. He didn't stop, kept trying. If he could just catch the bastard off guard – he screamed as his rib cracked.

The edge of his vision started to darken, jolts of light filling his vision as he bled into the forest floor and passed into the dark, bleeding on the forest floor.

**_

* * *

_**

_**To be continued.**_

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* * *

**

Thoughts are very much appreciated :) Thanks for reading regardless though.

Points to the people who can name the movie I referenced but as a book even though its only actually a movie and not a book (yeah, I know it isn't a book but sue me)


	4. Breaking Points

**Author's Note:** This was the hardest chapter to write - like no joke I struggled with this so I hope it's okay. After this there will be one last short chapter and then it's over. Also in regards to the last chapter and the bodice-ripper-novel - it was inspired strongly by Labyrinth fanfiction as well as a little but of Scabior-romance ... just my little poke at fun there .. so points to all you smart kids who worked that one out.

I really hope you enjoy this.

Hasn't been beta'd. Feedback is gold.

Thanks for reading!

**Live Fast, Die Young**

**

* * *

**

**Breaking Points**

**

* * *

**

_I might stick to walking_

_It isn't that bad_

_I would liken it to be being flushed down a bloody toilet – not going to do it_

_

* * *

_

Light danced before him, breathing heavy, his eyes just stared into the darkness. Screaming, god he could hear it, hear the rush of air around him as blackness blinked around him. He should fight, should – searing pain consumed him, his hands holding his guts in: red, sticky, warm.

He was going to die. Die like a goddamn animal hunted down, trying to protect her. Fuck. His lip trembled and he hoped it was quick and painless for her: that Greyback wouldn't take her and – a thud hit the ground, weight on his leg.

Hands touched him, hands pushed the weight away. Droplets of water fell on his face as those hands held him.

He was ripped into a tiny squeeze and saw white.

* * *

_She scares me_

_The school nurse scares you? _

_

* * *

_

His throat was parched: dry and tight. He needed some water, a cool refreshing glass of cool, clear, pure water. His eyes absorbed the darkness around him: small features around him tell him that he is in a hospital, no doubt St Mungo's. And the smell: sterile, lemon, and slightly stale. It was like being back in the Hospital Wing.

Except the Hospital Wing didn't have private rooms – which led to beg the question how he was in one … he didn't have the gold to afford one to begin with so unless he had – why was he even in here?

He glanced down at his chest, and saw white. Bandages had been wrapped around him, tight. He ran his hands over them, feeling the soft material, drawing in another deep breath – fruit, air. He knew that smell but where from?

It was so familiar, like a childhood memory flickering in and out. He knew it but he couldn't picture how. He breathed in again, his head tilting to the right where a comfy armchair sat, a woollen blanket on it. He reached out, groaning as a ripple of pain coursed through him.

"Feck," he said, rubbing his chest which only made it worse.

He shuddered and threw another glance around the room. There had to be a Healer on duty, there had to be a call button or something – the door creaked open, a slice of light coming into the room and he squinted as he saw a figure slide in.

He sighed in relief, it was like the Healers had read his mind – wait. His nose twitched and he looked at the figure, eyes widening slightly as the fruit and air made sense. It was her scent, her smell.

_Her. _

"El?" she whispered, "You okay?"

And it all came back to him: her, Greyback, the forest, his blood spilling.

* * *

_It would hurt_

_Of course it would. _

_

* * *

_

She was sitting cross-legged in the armchair, the blanket pooled in her lap, face pale, shadows under her eyes, hair in a messy bun. When she had found him awake earlier she had avoided all his questions, asking about his pain, asking how he felt before fetching a Healer who had drugged him up to the point where he no longer made a whole lot of sense.

She had then just sat by him as he rambled and rambled – about what he wasn't sure and he was fairly certain he didn't want to know though he suspected it had something to do with how she smelt because she kept sniffing at her top, which he realised probably hadn't been changed in a while.

It was from this point he had asked what happened even though the images that had played before his mind's eye told him enough: he had been attacked by a werewolf. By Greyback nonetheless. In human form though so it did beg the question – was he man or wolf?

"So am I a werewolf?" he asked.

The sunlight peeked its way through the shutters.

"Well," she said carefully, "We aren't sure – it is very rare for a werewolf to attack while in human form and from digging into the archives we've found when it did happen they just killed them in fear – old Ministry policy and all. But that won't happen to you –"

"Fantastic," he muttered, "Freakin' fantastic,"

"Listen – I don't think you will though. You might experience a few wolfish things like increased senses – smell for instance," his face warmed at that, "But since it wasn't –"

"- full moon the Curse might not take complete 'old," he finished. He blinked. "So when is the next moon? When do we find out?"

"A while … we only did get attacked right after the last one after all – until then we wait,"

"So because of me potentially going animal," he said suddenly, "I get a room to myself? In case I go ballistic on everyone?"

She shook her head. "Actually a 'family friend' of yours paid for it,"

"'Family friend'?"

As the words left his mouth, he groaned. 'Family friend'? Well he supposed him being the last of the Scabior line anyone who was a friend of his counted and considering he didn't know many wealthy wizards that meant only one thing.

_Fuck._

"Yeah, Yaxley wasn't excited to see you with a 'mudblood'," she said shortly, watching his expression with a grim expression, "But he'll keep paying anyway,"

"My life can't suck any more than it does,"

* * *

_That was stupid_

_You're just saying that because we won!_

_Dirty trick_

_You say that every time, Gorgeous, and I keep telling you I'll show a really dirty – ouch!_

_

* * *

_

He had been let out of St Mungo's yesterday after spending the full moon. It was like life was back to normal, like time had rewinded and they, he and her, were back to where they had been before her father died, before they went camping, before they ran into Greyback.

He had been let out of St Mungo's yesterday after spending the full moon in a padded cell. The cell was set up for the mentally unstable which he supposed he was. Nothing had happened besides the darkness that sat by him through the night. He wasn't a werewolf and yet – it would get out he had been attacked by one and wizards were notorious for jumping to conclusions.

Werewolves were hated by his kind. If you became a werewolf you would hide it because the moment you let someone know you were better off to go live in the Packs on the fringe of society. The fact they had aided the Dark Lord didn't help their status and the laws were becoming tougher and tougher against them. Scabior knew he would get stares, get comments.

He didn't like that.

But at least he had been allowed to go home finally.

They were now at his place, side by side. Not together. They never were together when they slept – a cool barrier between them.

"Why did you say that stuff?" he asked.

She was half-asleep, her eyes flickering open as his voice cut through the air.

"Say what?"

"The back talking to Greyback?"

This made her sit up, eyes alight. Eyes sad as she stared at him: apologising almost but not really; she looked away. "I thought we were going to die. I figured that maybe if I distracted him you could –"

Something tightened inside of him: waves rippled through his body. She had tried to save him? Like that? And where had her recklessness landed them? She was fine, albeit sleep deprived though that was her own doing from watching over him, and with a few bruises. But he? He was gone, potentially animal and even not – the smells, the sights, the desire for – he was fairly sure he had been shredded down to a baser state of mind.

"That was fucking stupid," he snapped.

"You didn't seem to have a better plan," she returned, glaring.

"Well at least I wouldn't be dead instead of a fuckin' leper," he said, "You didn't think, did ya? I mean we were fucked yes, but what you said – I'm surprised the bastard hasn't already fucking –"

"Sorry for caring," she spat, getting up, "Sorry for wanting you to get away,"

"Don't get up," he said, hand reaching forward clutching her hand, grip tighting, "Get back into bed – _now_,"

She tugged but couldn't break free. She threw a glance around the room. He followed her gaze and grinned as he saw her eyes lingering on her wand, just out of reach. She flicked her eyes back to him and said firmly. "Let me go,"

"No," he growled.

"You –" she froze and took a deep breath in, trying to relax (trying to convince him to loosen his grip), "Fuck, Scabior, I'm sorry I got you hurt but I wasn't thinking exactly clearly –"

"You think it's about _that_?"

She nodded and a part of him did agree – a part that wanted to lash out and scream at her.

"It isn't," he said, "Your fucking," his grip tightened and she winced, "stupidity was going to make that bastard all the more interested in you – _you!_ Do you even know what that sick fuck has done to children let alone –"

He couldn't finish it but she knew. Like she always did.

"You were afraid," she said.

He nodded.

"Of losing me that way,"

He looked at her carefully. He had been afraid: afraid of Greyback touching her, ripping into her as he pushed again and again. Her eyes dead as body was bloody and blue, as that bastard touched her, _claimed her and took her from him, her smiling _– he froze. No, he wasn't thinking like that – like some jealous – fuck. He was afraid of her dying like that – not of Greyback taking her from him – right?

He didn't know.

His grip loosened. "Get out,"

"El –"

She wasn't his. She was her.

The beast disagreed.

* * *

_Exam study techniques – number one: try and –_

_Load of rubbish_

_

* * *

_

Sometimes when the moon got full he became a little too tense, a little too rash.

They had tried running it out, exhausting him but as he ran, always just behind her because she was faster, he felt his heart jolt, felt the wind tease, smelt her – running from him. Like prey. And that would just pull him in deeper, make him run faster.

She had then suggested tea and meditation. But as he had sat there with his eyes closed he couldn't concentrate. She was all around him; every deep breath, every moment of reflection. She was there and he wanted her.

And he did have her.

The next morning though he regretted it as he saw her black and blue marks.

She decided that maybe when the full moon came again she'd take the late work shift. They always did need extra brewers on hand. This helped because he couldn't get to her, but it drove him mad as he waited for her to come home so that he could inhale her all over again.

He ended up going to Yaxley's.

The older wizard stayed up with him throughout the night and they talked, like old times, honey dripping from the Death Eater's lips as Scabior felt his mood brighten under the blue moon. With Yaxley he could say what he wanted. He could be whatever he wanted.

It felt good.

* * *

_Love Potions aren't love though – they are obsession, lust, passion, jealousy, fear –_

_Submission and dominance rolled into one, yeah?_

_

* * *

_

They fell into silence.

Not that their silences weren't a natural cycle of who they were – it was just he felt they lived and breathed them now and that the silence was now awkward. They joked less about stupid things, pointed out random facts of life less – they were drifting apart. They had never spelt out their secrets, confessed their hearts in long rambles instead letting pieces of information flow but now every scrap of information between them was measured and guarded.

He didn't want to talk about the camping trip even though she asked constantly; he didn't want to tell her about what Yaxley said because he knew what his old friend said was wrong – wrong towards her and her parentage. He didn't want to let her know that he was slipping: getting angrier, falling deep into an animalistic mindset every full moon and drunk to push it away. He couldn't explain it even to himself why he was letting this happen but the darkness, the looks from his co-workers, the hesitation, the hunger to just have her – and the smells.

Oh, the scents – the air that she started carrying home from work especially after the full moon. That mint never escaped his notice as he kissed her, fucked her all over his bed and then her apartment to reaffirm that she was his – because she was his. His. He'd defended her. She wouldn't leave him.

And yet he could see she wasn't always there as he drove into her.

* * *

_Hey!_

_That's right – run from my snowballs of DOOM!_

_

* * *

_

"Sweden?" he repeated.

"Yeah," she nodded, twirling pasta in her fork, not looking up at him. She took a bite and he watched a long strand being sucked up into her mouth, her jaw chewing slowly and in a constant: _chew, chew, chew_.

"How come again?"

"Work," she looked up now, "Conference about Potions. A bunch of us are being sent,"

"And you said yes?"

"Of course," she said, "I'd be stupid not to,"

"But Sweden?"

"Why shouldn't of I said yes?" she challenged, pointing her fork at him. "C'mon, say it,"

He wanted to say because he needed her. That it was selfish for her to leave – which it was. She was practically a drug and sometimes he had to wonder if she had slipped him a Love Potion even though he knew she hadn't, knew she'd never force anyone into something like that. He needed her by his side because she was – he sighed and pushed the thoughts away.

_She was her's._

He repeated that over in his head before shrugging.

"I was just thinking that ya gonna miss Easter," he said with a weak grin.

She rolled her eyes but not in amusement.

* * *

_Summer is too long_

_Perfect length actually_

_

* * *

_

She got back from Sweden and he found himself not missing her.

Oh he missed her sweet honey back talk and trailing fingers, light kisses and easy laugh. He missed her sarcastic comments, on the ball remarks and fierce conviction. He missed her drive as he continued to go on runs and he found himself questioning why he stilled ran because it didn't give him freedom … like it gave her.

He missed that but not herself. The space was good – he got used to her lack of presence, used to not having to worry about someone else, used to stretching out fully when he fell asleep each night. He got used to all that. The distance was comfortable. It allowed him to regain control – he had become dependent … he needed to change that.

And yet when she came back he felt a small twist in his gut.

But he ignored that and just like the first time they seemed to drift again – still seeing each other constantly but not living out of each other's pockets. He went to work, saw her at lunch, had more work and then would head home.

Alone.

The distance was nice because he felt younger again. The distance was bad because he couldn't hold her every night.

And because every time he saw her he smelt that mint.

* * *

_Could this face ever lie?_

_Yes, yes it could_

_

* * *

_

"How about we catch up for dinner tomorrow?"

"I can't,"

"How come?"

She looked at him, straight in the eye. "I have a work thing,"

"You always have work things,"

"Well that is what happens when you get Chief Brewer," she said with a shrug. She pulled out two different robes – one in a soft blue, the other a vibrant green. "Which one?"

"Isn't that a little …" he started to say and she nodded.

"Yeah, the green isn't right … the blue though I can get away with,"

As he watched her walk off he wondered if he should voice the fact he felt those robes were a little too fancy for a 'work thing'.

Then again he hadn't been to a 'work thing' in a long time so who was he to judge?

* * *

_Turkey ... I can smell it, god I want it so much _

_I just want some chips – salty chips_

* * *

Mint, he smelt it fiercely as she sat on his couch with a big cup of tea, reading through notes. It was on her everywhere: mint. He sat on his bed, and watched her. Her hair was tied back, the bloody red streak lose in a sea of dark brown and her hands were plain and had a bandage on the left from a potion gone wrong.

Mint … the bandage also smelt of it.

* * *

_You cackle_

_I do not_

_Do too_

* * *

He came to her work one day and saw her laughing. He hadn't heard her laugh like this in so long: light, airy. In fact it wasn't the same as her laugh for him. This one seemed all the more lighter – not a trace of darkness. This was just joy with no thought.

She was laughing with one of the Healers.

The mint was thick in the air.

* * *

_Everything will change once we leave here – job, money, rent … I don't think I can handle it_

_You'll handle it … otherwise you can probably crash at my place._

_Thanks_

* * *

They finally had dinner and made it halfway back to his apartment when the mint became too much. She must have soaked herself in it, or rather let the source trial all over her. He needed to change this, needed to bring back her. She used to be air and flowers – he needed that back.

He wanted it back and he would have it. She was his for god sake's. They had been through so much since sixth year, they both saw the world for what it was. He wouldn't let it change, he couldn't let it change.

She couldn't do anything to stop him.

* * *

_They just fought … I wasn't meant to happen, see … and that was why they came together_

_Well mine were forced together out of old practice _

_Why can't people ever just marry for ..._

_Love?_

_Yeah_

_Dunno, darl'_

* * *

_**To be continued.**_

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* * *

**

Thoughts are very much appreciated :) Thanks for reading regardless though.


	5. Fade

**Author's Note:** The very last chapter ... I hope you enjoy this and thank you so much for reading and reviewing.

This hasn't been beta'd.

**Live Fast, Die Young**

**

* * *

**

**Fade**

**

* * *

**

"Why did you have red streaks in your hair? Back in Sixth Year. Why?"

He can see the life trickling from her as she spoke. He can see it, and he knows he should stop it. He should save her, be her hero. But he's no hero, he's no villain, he's just a mess. He has no control and doesn't know how he can stop the blood from staining his hands further as he holds her. Her eyes stare up at his, her soul slowly moving on as her body is raked with pain.

He could save her and yet he asks her that question because it is something he's always wanted to know and she doesn't have much longer – she's too far gone. Those bloody red streaks, like the ones that now stain him, are what pulled him to her. They pulled him to her.

Her eyes tell him she won't fight him this time. He wants them to tell him that she isn't gone yet, that her edge is still anchored to this world. It isn't. Still the question must be answered.

"Lost …" her body shuddered, blood trickling down her chin.

"Lost what?" he whispered, bending in a little closer. Her lips are now at his ears, his mouth on her neck, breathing in the blood: so thick, so powerful, so her; and the magic that seeps from her. "Tell me, please,"

"Bet." She muttered. "Lost to my cousin – a race, had to get –"

His gut twisted: a bet, she lost a carefree race – no doubt on a sandy shoreline in the sun. He shushed her as she kept trying to speak, not wanting her to fade away in a ramble, his lips ghosting her's. Her lips quirked briefly at the contact: she no longer cared what he'd done, just like she never cared how he ignored her around purebloods. He was here, she wasn't alone like her father was, like his mother had been. She had someone.

He pulled back; saw that her eyes are out of focus as she started to drift off.

She didn't wake up but remained anchored to his dreams.

_"Night night."_

* * *

_Stars are just balls of gas_

_No they aren't._

_Yeah, they are – and they are just burning out all the time_

* * *

_**Fin.**_

**

* * *

**

Author's Note:

I have to say this is has been a very enjoyable journey to take - I long thought about how I was going to finish this ... would I reveal her name? Would I show the after-effects? In the end though I did decide on her name I felt I didn't need to include this as these are Scabior's recollections of a girl he loved and a girl who resulted him being sent to Azkaban and so he has tried to forget her. I also decided to end it here because this story is about Scabior and her together ... and as she has left I feel if I added on an extra section about how he got sent to Azkaban this story would lose something ... I dunno.

This story was ultimately may way to show how Scabior becomes the Snatcher we all know and love - I hope you've enjoyed my potrayal.

I would like to thank all the people for reading, fav'ing, alerting and reviewing this - special mention to _Pure and utter vengeance_, and _BittersweetWhispers1_ whose little insights really aided me in writing this.

So thanks again to everyone - and any feedback on this is still very much appreciated. :)


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